Love Won't Jumpstart My Dead Heart
by FallingDomino
Summary: "She was the love of my life," said Ethan, "I'd have done anything to keep her alive, and don't give me that look, Ripper. You'd have done the same if you had the balls." Rosalie Giles hasn't aged a minute since the day she died 23 years ago, and yet her pulse still beats and she still eats and breathes. But she came back wrong, as most dead things do. Spike/OFC, S4
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing but my OC.**

 **Hello my beautiful critters. I have taken about a year break from fanfiction, where my main focus was Supernatural fics. While I do not know if I will ever continue those (maybe if enough people wanted it), this story is one I have been toying around with for quite some time. So far I'm happy with it.**

 **Hope you are too.**

 **Enjoy.**

ONE: She Thought She Had Died Again

The last two pumps of life thumped against Ethan Rayne's fingers as he held the man's pulse. His eyes were cast on Ethan's, and even in death, the plea for life still swam in his baby blues. The rain-soaked business suit he wore struggled to stretch across his massive figure.

"Sorry, old chap," Ethan whispered. "I know my girl can be scary when she's hungry." He swiped a hand down his face, remaining in his crouched position as his eyes scoured the shadowed damp alleyway walls. In an undertone, he murmured, "An' she's always hungry."

And in huge trouble when he finally managed to track her down. But like any starving animal, she always left breadcrumbs. Twenty-three years and she was still messy. Although it made his job easier, Ethan was almost disappointed.

Getting to his feet, he glanced back down at the dead man, tilting his head like admiring artwork. It was Sunnydale; it wasn't like a dead body was going to look out of place. No use getting his hands dirty.

Hands in jean pockets, Ethan made his way to the open mouth of the the alley, leaning against the brick wall as he took in the lamp-lit streets of Sunnydale. In the orange spotlights, the rain could be seen taking a sideways slant as it poured down harder.

"Oh, Ripper, you are in for a surprise," Ethan breathed into the dark.

….

She thought she had died again.

Some time ago, even a week previously, it would have been a welcoming prospect. But she had goals now, a man she needed to see, someone who could offer her closure.

Now there was harsh fluorescent light burning her pupils. But amidst the white light, figures were making themselves known, like images being painted across an easel. Masked figures with menacing metal tools, poking and pricking at her flesh. They were speaking, but she heard the words like she was underwater.

"Regular heartbeat . . ."

"Subject is gradually gaining consciousness. Another dose, and remember to avoid skin contact."

Hands—everywhere on her naked body. She was resisting before she willed it.

"Confine her."

She felt her wrists and ankles strapped down to the metal table her body lay on. The awareness she obtained in the last ten seconds was now fading, her vision blurring like dosed with water, and staying awake was like trying to grab a shadow.

The drugged sleep was dreamless, but at least it was black.

In a haze of timeless hours, when the next reluctant consciousness greeted her, the first thing she noticed was her face pressed against a smooth floor. Then a wave of throbbing pain was washing through her head, like someone had planted a wifi modem in her brain.

Unwashed strings of blonde hair fell into her eyes as she lifted her head, which felt like an anvil on her shoulders. She was still groggy and disoriented with whatever drugs that were still leaving her system, but she could at least tell she was lying in the middle of a white symmetrical box, so spotless she could see her reflection in the walls. There were no scents, not even a definite temperature, and the only thing to see besides white was the square opening that viewed a wide-spaced hallway where she could see . . .

Her heart did the rare thing where it sped up, pumped blood, panicking behind her chest. The anxiety almost felt good. It reminded her she was alive.

She lowered her head, closed her eyes, ran her gloved fingers through her hair and tried to numb her mind enough to think properly, recall what she remembered last. She couldn't have been in—what town was it?—Sunnydale an hour before she landed herself here, wherever 'here' was. Yet on the brink of her memory, there was something—a group of men with masks and guns. Military?

She slowly shifted onto her knees and then to her feet, wincing. It felt like her joints were jammed with glass. She made her way to the glass door, lifting a hand to touch it.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," said a voice to her left, an edge of harsh amusement in his tone.

Her eyes shifted toward the direction of the voice, though she could not see anyone. She looked forward instead. On the other side of the hall, the wall was completely lined with white boxes, white cages, holding people captive. Though people wasn't the word she'd use. She was a good distance away, but she could see some of these prisoners looked disfigured, hairy, and monstrous.

A kind of prison for demons and monsters?

The thought made her reluctant to trust the voice. She watched what looked like several masked doctors wheel a medical gurney into her limited range of vision. They halted before a box just opposite her and swipe a card, a light beeping from red to green as the glass door slid open. The doctors collected the unconscious being and strapped him down to the stretcher before wheeling him out of sight.

She gave into her suspicions.

"What is this place?" she said, voice cracking from lack of use. It surprised her to hear it; the last time she used it was to scream at Ethan a week ago.

"Search me," the disembodied voice responded. "Just as clueless as the other rats here. For all I know we're being tested on with a bloody cosmetics mascara or something."

Her lips drew back, and she realized she was smiling. It fell from her face instantly. Even in America, she couldn't escape the Englishmen.

She paced the length of her confinement, eyes searching the blank walls for an escape that obviously was not there.

"It's no use, no hidden trapdoors," said the voice, and it was obvious he was taking enjoyment in being unhelpful.

"How long have you been down here?"

"Doesn't matter, won't be for much longer."

"You got a plan?"

He scoffed. "What's it to you, pet?"

"Fluorescent light isn't my color."

A breath of laughter, an amused silence, but no reply from the stranger. She let out a heavy breath—something she was grateful to have—and slunk down the wall into a criss-cross position, the white light against her eyelids burning away all the privacy of darkness.

Could this possibly have anything to do with Ethan?

The name, just the thought of it, her face flushed, her ribs expanded with angry breath, and her heart accelerated with a furious pang.

He was a damned selfish bastard and would do anything to keep her confined, but hold her captive in some sort of governmental institution? Even for him it was overkill, but anything to keep his prize-winning swan in a cage.

She couldn't think of him, couldn't risk the anger that would weaken her. She had to focus on a way to get out of this unexpected bear trap, even if that meant convincing the stranger to let her in on his plan. Anything, any plan, no matter the consequences, she'd take it.

She had waited twenty-three long suffering years. She could wait another few days.

Anything to get back to her brother.

….

She never would have thought losing your concept of time would bring you to borderline insanity. In the following days (she was pretty sure it was days) she tried to count each hour, but every minute was like smoke seeping through her fingers, just like her sense of reality.

She would pass the time by meditating or observing the doctors, or whatever they were, from her cell. They had a regular schedule of gathering apparently drugged demons and wheeling them off through the metal sliding doors based at the end of the enormous corridor. No prisoner ever returned.

On what felt like the second day, a tray of food slipped from a seamless compartment in the wall. Unusually upscale in its quality for a prisoner, it was a bowl of French onion soup served with a loaf of steaming bread, along with a bottle of Dasani.

She was no stranger to hunger; she would even call starvation second nature for her, but the walls of her stomach felt like they were being clawed at from an animal within. The steam rising from the platter even seemed to have a cartoonish 'come hither' motion, but unless she wanted to end up on the other side of those metal doors, she kept her mouth shut.

Even worse than the hunger, it had already been a week before she showered and being trapped in this confined room with her body odor was keeping her in a constant state of nausea. Her hair was a tangled nest of grease and her teeth were coated with white grime from not brushing.

Impatience and irritation were scratching like rats at her brain, but she sat quietly all hours of the day, waiting for her opening.

It wasn't until what felt like days later did she see it.

The doctors were doing their annual cycle around the room, pulling along their gurney whose wheels squealed like tortured animals. Packed in the back corner, her spine straightened against the wall as she watched them near her prison. But they maneuvered right past to her neighboring cell on the left, toward the voice she had spoken with.

She sat immobile, hands on her crossed knees, brows coming together as she observed the two doctors struggle to heave a man in a leather duster onto the gurney. They made to fasten his wrists and ankles. She blinked. One of the doctor's throats was in a death grip by the 'unconscious' man.

Her eyes followed every movement of the stranger as he made his offense on the second doctor, mimicking the fluidity and ferocity she had only seen in an enraged viper. His martial skill was so flawless it was almost a turn on to watch, and he didn't even strike them once. He wheeled one of the doctors into the other's awaiting needle before flipping him onto his back, leaving them both unconscious.

An alarm sounded, flashing red lights suffocating the atmosphere.

"Let me out," she said, getting to her feet and advancing to the electric glass barrier.

"Bit busy," he muttered, looking left and right.

"I know the way out."

Her eyes drew his to hers.

"This place is a maze, a maze that's gonna be littered with military men with guns," she said. "I was conscious when they wheeled me in here; I memorized the way out."

He stared at her, vague flickers of electricity opaquing his features through the glass. Then, he bent down, frisking the unconscious doctor until he found a keycard in his lab coat pocket. He swiped it on the pad before her cell, and after a beep, the glass door slid open cleanly.

"Ladies first," he said.

Her eyes did a quick measure of him before she was sprinting off down the hallway, past the hundred rows of confinements whose prisoners gazed at the duo as they sped past. The stranger pushed past her to slide the card at the door, allowing them entry into the hall.

"Which way?" he shot at her.

"I'm not sure."

"You said you knew the way—"

"I lied."

They met eyes, in time for her to watch him raise a scarred eyebrow.

Eyes sailing past his shoulder, her heart screamed with adrenaline as she caught sight of the horde of armed soldiers stomping toward them, weapons raised and aimed.

She started off in a run in the opposite direction, not looking back to see if he was following. Showers of sparks fell around them as the bullets hit the metal walls, igniting the red glowing path. They made mindless twists and turns until it felt like they were in the heart of the institution. Every now and then they would pass a lab coat doctor cowering in the corner.

After a full twenty minutes of aimless running, there was no more sound of gunfire. The pair rested behind a wall, her chest rising and falling, clutching the stitches in her side.

She glanced sideways at the stranger. With the ominous red alarm light slowly turning on an off, his pale features were taking on a blood glow, the shadow of his cheekbones looking carved into his face.

"Might have an idea of where the exit is, no games," he said without a hint of strain in his breath. "Gonna need you ready to run again."

She moved two fingers to rest against her own pulse, felt three healthy pumps.

God she missed this.

"Lead the way," she said.

….

The institution, laboratory, L'Oréal—whatever it was—was literally a rat maze. At this point, she saw no other option but to trust this Billy Idol wannabe, at least until they were out in the harsh light of day. She followed on his heels, who seemed to be following his nose more than he was his sense of direction.

"ATTENTION," rang a disembodied female voice, "EMERGENCY SHUT DOWN IN PROCESS. HOSTILE 17 AND 18 HAVE ESCAPED. I REPEAT, HOSTILE 17 AND—"

"I'd kick the pace up a notch, pet," the stranger said, a few paces ahead as they sprinted down a mile-length corridor, where at the end the elevator was being closed off.

She could taste copper on her tongue, but she ran until every muscle in her body screamed in protest, strands of hair sticking to her sweaty forehead and cheeks.

Gunshots.

Although too spiked on adrenaline to feel any real pain, she could tell the bullet hit her right above the elbow, splintering into the bone. Hurling herself through the air and unable to help but feel like a spy, she slid sideways under the closing metal door into the elevator, right after the stranger. From the other side, she heard the metallic clinks of bullets hitting the door.

Taking in rasps of blood-tasting breath, she lay there a few moments, watching the man swipe the keycard on a dial before they were heading up. Her eyes flickered to the blank ceiling before her lips did the unexpected thing and twitched upward into a smile. She ran her fingers along the wound on her arm, felt a trickle of blood, and laughed.

"Sorry if I failed to see when something funny happened," said the man.

She shifted onto her knees, catching the last of her breath before pulling herself to her feet. They stood there, side-by-side, almost in awkward silence. All that was missing was elevator music. In less than a minute, the doors slid open and they warily entered a dimly lit room. The difference was was that she could smell fresh forest air coming from somewhere.

She found two metal doors, not unlike underground cellar doors, and pushed to no avail. The stranger took his place before it and aimed a high kick which made the doors fly off their hinges. His strength made her nervous.

Leaves crunched underneath their feet as they descended into a thick woods, the half-moon's light barely able to penetrate through the oak branches. The cool air was blissful to her flushed cheeks. She gave one glance at the stranger before walking off in the opposite direction. She hadn't gotten two steps when a set of strong fingers gripped her forearm in a vise grip.

"Not so fast, poppet," said the man, a purr smoothing his tone.

Her skin went prickly, and not in a good way. She looked at him over her shoulder.

"I don't break out of government institutions without at least getting my escape partner's name," he continued, his grip tightening.

"I have to be somewhere," she said.

He cocked his head at her, as though wondering if she could really be that naïve.

"I'm serious. I don't have time for this."

"Straight to the point then. Alright. Listen here then, pet," he went on, his upper lip curling a bit as a growl entered his tone of voice. He pulled her in close like they were about to dance at prom. "This big bad's been jammed up in that white pit for days without a drop to eat. They were decent enough to give me takeout, though."

His hand slid up her arm, his thumb caressing her bullet wound through her jacket, which had already stopped bleeding. He sucked on his bloodstained finger, watching her for her reaction. She gave a vague pull, more so to further test his strength. He didn't budge.

"Vampire?" she said quietly.

He studied her, a smirk playing at his lips. "An' what exactly does that make you? Don't think I missed the fact that their little hobby was collection demons and beasties." His eyes raked her up and down. "No visible horns. No tail. Not a vamp. You've got pumping blood. I gotta believe it's good enough to drink."

A tree branch swayed in the following breeze, allowing the moonlight to bathe upon the stranger's face just in time for it to morph into the demonic face of a vampire.

"I love it when they run," he said. "Gets the blood flowing, a little adrenaline cocktail."

"I know, I love adrenaline," she said, reaching out her free hand to hold the side of his head, running her gloved fingers through his hair. He wasn't so much taller than she, and she not much shorter, but she still had to look up at him as she brought his lips to hers. She could feel his shock through his mouth, his fangs on her upper lip as she deepened the kiss.

She waited.

Sometimes they started gasping like they were on the moon without a helmet.

Sometimes they started seizing.

They all died.

But nothing.

She withdrew suddenly, gazing incredulously up at him, lips parted and eyebrows knitting together. "You don't . . ." She swallowed hard. "You don't—feel _any_ thing?"

He stared at her warily, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip. "An' . . . what exactly was it about the 'I'm gonna kill you' part that made you fall for me so quickly?"

Her heart started pounding even harder than it had all night, her tongue feeling like a dried and shriveled root. What was she even supposed to feel?

Terrified.

Euphoric.

But realization slowly tumbled into place. He was a vampire. It made sense.

Within the chaotic blur of emotions, she almost forgot where she was, why she was here, what she had been doing before she went down the rabbit hole.

Doing the first thing that came to mind, she pressed both her palms flat on his chest and shoved with all her might and ran. He was off guard so he tumbled, but regained his footing almost at once, chasing her downhill. She dodged trees, hopping over boulders and fallen trunks.

There was a hard shove on her back and she tripped, rolling through bushes and leaves ten feet before her back came in contact with a tree. Bones cracked like lightning and she became paralyzed with pain, a breathless moan sailing past her lips. Struggling onto all fours, her eyes darted everywhere as she heard the man's shuffling footsteps in the leaves. She groped for a large rock just as he gripped her ankle, pulling her roughly toward him through leaves and dirt. As he bent down to grab her throat, she brought the rock hard across his head, actually feeling his skull bend inward a little. Even as he went limp, she stroke a second time before pushing his unconscious body off her.

Chest heaving, she cradled one of her broken ribs as she shifted to her feet, eyes scoping the forest floor. She picked up a fallen branch and tested it sharpness. She turned to the fallen vampire, using her foot to roll him onto his back so his chest was exposed to her. A drop of sweat falling off the tip of her nose, she pressed the point of the stake to his heart, feeling like a gladiator claiming his kill.

Her heart stopped as she stared at his unconscious face.

When was the last time she had touched another person's flesh and not have them crumble into death before her?

Her grip on the stick loosened.

She didn't have time for this.

She had wasted so much of it already.

Rupert . . .

She dropped the stick to the earth, eyes locked on the stranger as she backed away, then turning and breaking into a run, running like her life depended on it.

It didn't, though.

Her 'life' depended on much darker things.

….

Rupert Giles was having a sleepless night. The grandfather clock's hands were pushing four in the morning. The Who was playing softly on the cassette player. He was in the kitchen, dressed in his bathrobe, just finishing fixing up a cup of tea and contemplating whether or not to slip in a drop of rum. He decided against it, as it would only put him back to sleep.

The dreams were getting worse.

He sat himself at his desk, taking off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. Leaning back in his seat, he took a prolonged sip from his drink, not caring that the substance burned the roof of his mouth. He stared into the empty darkness of the living room, feeling a depression trying to snag onto him.

He slipped up the sleeve of his bathrobe, exposing his forearm, the tattoo inked into his flesh. His finger just started tracing the intricate details when he heard a rustle, footsteps. He fixed his sleeve and gazed at his front door, narrowing his eyes as he heard three clean knocks.

Not panicked nor desperate. Who would be knocking on the door this late?

Tense but in control, Giles got to his feet and made his way to the door, glancing out the window to see a woman standing on his doorstep. He couldn't tell if he knew her, but she wore a hood so it was hard to tell.

His fingers shied the doorknob a mere few seconds before taking hold of it and turning, pulling the door open a foot. The woman was tall, matted blonde hair sticking out of her hood like a bird's nest, leaves and twigs tangled within it. Her clothes were ripped and ragged, and from here Giles could tell she hadn't had a shower in quite a period of time. Grime shined on her face like dew.

"I'm sorry, can I . . ."

He only just noticed her bloody lip and her jeans, ripped at the knees, bloodstained and covered in dirt.

"Good God, are you alright?" he demanded. "I can phone an ambulance—"

"Rupert."

Her voice sounded scratched and dry of any moisture. His train of thought came to a screeching halt.

"How did you . . ." His accelerating heart was trying to tell him something. He took off his glasses, squinting at her. "Who are you? How do you know . . ."

She lowered her hood, met his eyes with her familiar bluish-green ones. They were familiar because he saw them every time he looked in a mirror. Yet it had been over twenty years since he had seen them.

"Look me in the eyes, Rupert," she said. "Look at me. You know who I am."

Giles's entire body went stiff with goose pimples. His mouth hung open, forming soundless words. Incredulity crawled across his flesh like electricity. Finally, with what felt like the final breath in his lungs, he breathed, "R—Ro . . ."

Something shut off the oxygen to his brain. He knew he was going to black out.

"Rose," she said.

Giles's glasses slipped through his fingers and cracked on the ground.

* * *

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	2. She Came From the Grave

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TWO: She Came From the Grave

"It's me," said Rose quietly, applying more pressure to the damp dishrag on Giles's forehead. "Really me. Open your eyes."

"You're dead . . ."

"No."

A hand held his cheek, a gloved hand, but warm and alive nonetheless. He leaned into it, his lashes fluttering, blurred vision clearing. He stared into her eyes first, his heart beginning to pound again, then took in every pore of her face, counted the few freckles on her nose. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, around the same age she was when she . . .

He was nauseous with confusion and terror.

"Rose . . ." He lifted a weak hand and rested it on her shoulder, gripped it hard. Solid. In a whisper that was a mere hiss of breath, "This can't be real."

"It's real."

"How . . . it's been—been over twenty—"

"I was brought back."

Giles's back stiffened against the leather couch. He straightened up, swiping the rag from his forehead, staring at the woman sitting beside him until his eyes watered from not blinking. "Who? _When_?"

Her eyes lowered, onto her hand which covered his.

His gaze sailed right past her, into infinity as his memories took him back to the night of January 1st, 1976, when he had been Ripper. The aroma of musk-scented candles was still fresh in his mind, his friends and him gathered around in a circle, chanting. Greedy and stupid.

He covered his eyes with his hand just as he sensed Rose get to her feet. He glanced over his fingers to watch her make her way to the kitchen and fill up a glass of water at the sink. His lips went numb with lack of blood just looking at her, seeing her move with apparent life.

It _couldn't_ be . . .

Although he wasn't sure if his bloodless legs would support, he shifted to his feet, keeping his hard eyes upon Rose the entire time he advanced toward her.

"Here," she said, extending the glass of water toward him. "Drink it, Rupert. You're pale."

"One summer holiday, you were around ten, we went to Uncle Edmund's farm. You brought in an animal that made Aunt Sophia tear up the house in terror. What was that animal?"

"I'm not an imposter."

"Answer me."

She inhaled through her nose and out her mouth, never taking her eyes from his. "A garden snake. I named him Anthony."

Giles sought the counter for support, knuckling away the beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Drink," she ordered, resting a hand on his arm. "Drink and sit down."

"How can you be here?" he demanded in a hiss.

"Necromancy can't be too far out of your field."

"It's been twenty-three years. Twenty-three ye—!" He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, clenching his eyes shut. "Why, why _now_? Who did this? How much do you remember—"

"All of it."

A tension thick as smoke fell. A silence, broken only by the clock's ticking, stretched for a torturous minute—long enough for every wound his sister's death inflicted upon him to have their stitches ripped right from the flesh.

He watched his knuckles cascade to white as he gripped the counter edge, feeling her eyes on his face, but his words felt stuck to his throat. He was faint again.

"I'm here, Rupert," said Rose, a ferocity in her voice he had forgotten about. "I'm not a mirage, not an imposter."

"Who did this to you?" he repeated for a third time.

Her eyes were hard, intense age forced into youthful blue orbs. It made him feel like cold stone. But something in her look made it click within him.

He barely breathed, "Ethan . . ."

"He'll be here, looking for me."

Giles felt like he had been force fed a boulder as big as his torso. He clenched his eyes shut, still depending on the counter to hold his weight. Ever since they were teenagers, Ethan's gaze had always lingered a little too long upon his sister, filled with nothing but a disturbing greed. He had always known he had desired Rose, ever since she went through puberty.

But for him to bring her back to life? As far as Giles knew, Ethan's obsession with her never went past lust. The reason for her revival could only be based entirely upon his own selfish motives. Yet who knew what he had to sacrifice to bring her back?

Giles opened his eyes, but stared at nothing until he got tunnel vision. "You waited twenty-three years." His eyes flickered back to her, flinching as though not really expecting her to still be there.

"He had me convinced you died with me. Because he knew if I knew you were alive—"

"Then you would have no reason to stay with him," Giles finished, acid in his voice. "And you did? For all this time?"

Her frown deepened as her gaze dropped. She retrieved the kettle from the stove top and filled it up with water at the sink, her back to him. "There was nowhere to go," she said, for the first time a bit of youth in her voice. "I died, Rupert. I crossed a bridge into the afterlife and then was ripped from it. It changed me—as it would anyone. Ethan, even being who he is, was the only solid wall I had to lean on."

Giles was pinching his arm so hard there was a reddish purple mark when he released. He blinked. She was still there.

"Rose . . ." Her name escaped as a crack.

He wanted to run at her and hug her as closely to him as possible as he imagined doing for the past twenty-three years, yet something about her seemed so frail, like she might snap in two if he did. But he couldn't resist contact. He had to be _sure_ she was solid, really there with him. He lifted a gentle hand, but no sooner had the backs of his fingers caressed her cheek had she swatted his hand away and pulled back so violently she made the cups on the stove tremble.

Giles stared at her, the backs of his knuckles pressed against his lips. The bottom of his stomach seemed to have ripped open, leaving nothing but a feeling of rejection. Rose had the ruffled look of a disturbed animal, staring at the ground, flyaways of filthy hair seemingly everywhere.

She pursed her lips, not able to quite meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm the one who—" Giles looked hopelessly around the kitchen, running his fingers through his hair.

"Sit down, Rupert, you have no blood in your face."

He looked at her. He looked at her and his eyes stung.

"Rupert . . ."

"You have every right to be afraid of me," he said with a miserable laugh.

"No that's not why I—" The hardness in her gaze softened ever so slightly and the veins in the whites of her eyes became redder, but no tears shed. "Rupert, no."

Giles swiped a hand down his face, breathing, "It's all my fault,."

"Rupert." She made an attempt to grab his hand but he backed up weakly into the counter, rubbing his eyes until he saw black stars. His breath was picking up at a dramatic rate, his chest rising and falling as the kitchen started to vaguely spin around him.

" _Stop this_ ," she commanded. She brought a gloved hand to his cheek, applying a comforting pressure which he leaned into. His heart seemed to hesitate in its panic, his hard breathing decreasing.

He stared into her eyes, a crack not too far from his voice as he said, "Every night, every dream I've had since then, I tell you 'I'm sorry.'"

She studied him, using her thumb to wipe away a tear on his cheek. "I know," she said finally, in a tired voice that revealed her true age. "What else can you be?"

The kettle started to scream like a thing in pain.

….

After his third glass of brandy, her brother finally drifted into a drunken sleep on the couch. Rose sat beside him, her hand still intertwined with his. He hadn't gone down easily, and he would probably wake up thinking that all of last night was a dream.

The grandfather clock chimed five in the morning.

Rose stared down at his unconscious face. Even after all this time, it was as though she was expecting to return to the Ripper she remembered; twenty-one, rebellious, handsome and stupid. The brother that slipped a mouse in her bed or held her down to the ground and spit in her eyes.

She had had twenty-three years to forgive him for his foolish youth, but this middle-aged Rupert was a stranger to her.

And was he expecting her to be the same Rose as she was when she died? The thought made a twisted curve in the corner of her lips. She certainly looked the same, but as far as she was concerned, whoever she was born as in '51 died on January 1st of '76. She had spent the last twenty-three years living as the remnants of Rosalie Giles.

She got to her feet and pulled a wool blanket over her brother, securing a pillow behind his head. Down the hall she discovered the bathroom and took the best damn shower in her life. The water was opaque from the dirt and grime on her body.

When she exited the shower, she wrapped a towel around her, rubbing a clear circle in the mirror, making that squeaky noise. Her hair was fine and thin, damaged from bleach, her dark roots getting out of control. It was stringy when wet. The only thing that told the truth of her age was her eyes, where the experience and time was undeniable.

Securing the towel around her, she exited into the hallway, wishing she still had her bag so she could roll up a cigarette. After tidying up the kitchen a bit , she took the half-full bottle of brandy went outside onto the patio, closing the door behind her. She swigged a mouth-full of liquor, waiting for the poisonous burn, but it was like water to her now.

The first light of dawn tinted the air with a periwinkle hue. Rose leaned against the wall, right under the orange porch light, a swarm of bugs banging against the bulb. She tilted her chin ever so slightly to the sky, smiling at the strangeness of life. She had lived a lot of crazy days, enough for her to be well adapted to insanity, but the last few days were a slice of particularly nutty cake.

A government institution that kidnaps monsters? What kind of fucking town was this? Did all of that really just happen? The last few days of her entrapment felt like some sort of drugged dream. It was all so damn insane she didn't know what else to do but laugh about it.

And that vampire.

She brought the lips of the bottle to her own, watching a black cat descend from a few nearby bushes. She had never had an intimate encounter a vampire before so she had never had the chance to test her disability on one. And what did she find out? For the first time since she had died, there was someone out there that could hurt her, someone that she was vulnerable to.

It made her fingers tingle with excitement.

Where could he be now? She had left him unconscious on the forest floor. It was quite possible that the morning sun was going to dust him in a few minutes that is if the military guys didn't find him first. Rose surprised herself by feeling disappointed at this, but she wasn't about to go looking for him.

But if he somehow survived and was still roaming this town? Well . . .

She lifted two of her fingers to the pulse on her neck. Already getting weak. Already dying. There was a spot on her tongue that refused to moisten, a dehydration that could not be sated by water.

The cat trotted up to her, a license jingling around its neck. Its white fangs bared as it mewed hungrily up at her.

"Hi kitty," Rose said quietly, crouching down. The now empty bottle of brandy fell with a hollow clank to the ground. The towel loosened around her, but she gave no care for her nudity as she reached out to pet the cat, who rubbed its delicate head against her fingers.

She felt its fur stand on end as it seized beneath her touch.

* * *

 **Rose isn't a character I expect you to fall in love with, I just hope she's one you want to share this journey with.**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **I love all forms of feedback.**


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